For L We Stand
by that lionhearted vagabond
Summary: L could stand for many things, for Lily, and for Lucy, and Lysander, and Lorcan, but when it comes to the L's of the Second Generation, it mostly stands for Love. Five-Parter
1. Lily

**Disclaimer: I don't own HP, 'nuf said**

_**Chapter 1: Lily**_

The pain was unbearable. She felt like she was suffocating, her ribs crushing her heart, causing it to struggle with animalistic terror, which was why it was beating fast, wild, and erratic, it was fighting to be free, and yet it remained bound, and now it was shattering.

The image that was burning itself onto the back of her eyelids played out in front of her, her breath started coming in short, hard pants, and an icy cold pain seemed to creep through her chest, letting its fingers dance across her heart. The feeling, the bone-shattering pain, was what Lily imagined spending an extended amount of time in close proximity to a Dementor would feel like, and yet, she couldn't turn away.

The pain did not recede as her knees gave out, and the image of Scorpius and Rose locked in a passionate kiss was torn from her sight. They didn't hear the thump as she hit the ground, and she bit back the sob that threatened to break through her tightly closed lips.

It was her pride, if nothing else, that got her to back away from the cracked open door of her cousin's dorm room. She wouldn't let them see her like this, on the very verge of losing control, she didn't want their sympathetic glances, or consoling words, she was a big girl, she could handle it.

She wasn't handling it. It was completely illogical, she knew that. This wasn't a fairy tale, it wasn't her parents love story, he was her big brother's best friend, nothing more, nothing less, her school girl crush was nothing, it had no weight, no significance, no importance, no nothing, because it was _nothing. _

She knew that, understood it, it was clear, it was logical, and it hurt so _god-damn_ much, logic had never been her thing, that was always Rose. And then, with that thought, the pain was back. It hurts so much, and she wants to _screamscreamscream_, and tear out what's left of her heart and leave it in a jar until it was shriveled with black hair and unable to ever_ever _love again*, so she won't ever have to feel the agony again, so the heartache, and the sorrow would be _gonegonegone._

But she couldn't, so she ran. She runs from her fear, and her pain and her life and her problems, her feet pounding on the stone floor, and she doesn't let herself think, she just focuses on sprinting, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if she runs hard enough the emotions will disappear.

She keeps going until her legs want to give out again, but from exhaustion rather than shock this time, and there's sweat dripping down her sides, and her hair's undone and flowing in a tangled mess around her face, but no mess could possible compare to the internal one raging inside of her.

Her feet lead her back through the portrait, and up the never-ending steps in front of _his _dorm, she should have known, that was where she always ended up. She opens the door without realizing what she's doing, there's only one person inside.

Scrawny. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Laying on his back reading a book,

Jeremiah Green, he takes one look at her disheveled, tearstained, _heartbroken_ form and scampers off, probably to go find _him_, because he'll be able to help her, to keep her upright, because that's what he does.

She keeps going, undeterred, the bathroom door swings open, and then slams shut. She turns the shower on, until it's scalding_scalding_ hot, and she strips, in doing so glances at the mirror. There's a roar in her ears that blocks out all rational thought,

And she hit's the mirror until blood streams down her clenched fists, and the glass is _brokenbrokenbroken_, just like her heart.

The water doesn't clear her head, or wipe away the pain, but it helps hide the tears, and even though she doesn't feel any better, she looks it by the time she steps out. The towel's barely been wrapped around her when the door gets knocked on, and then opens, and _he_ is standing there.

Lysander takes one look at her and then steps forward, engulfing her in tight, loving embrace; she sobs into his shirt.

That was what Lysander did, he picked up the pieces, the shattered shards, and placed them together again, he couldn't _fix_ her, because Lily could never be quite _whole_, but he'd always_always_ be there when he was needed, because Fate was cruel and mean, and unpredictable to people like Lily Potter.

She gave her the boy who would never leave her, and had her fall for the one who would never stay.

**A/N Right, this should have five chapters,**

***Reference** **to "The Warlocks Hairy Heart," (The Tales of Beetle and Bard) **


	2. Lucy

_**Chapter 2: Lucy**_

Lucy was the kind of girl who sat in the rain, and chased butterflies, who kept her head down, and her mouth shut, who liked watching sunsets, and looking at the stars just to get a little perspective. She knew what she wanted to do in life. She was most likely going to work in the Ministry (for that's what her father wanted), probably in a decidedly dull position, such as in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She was also going to publish poetry, most likely under an assumed name, for she didn't want fame, and she was quite happy about that.

She lived her life blissfully, and her carefully planned out world was one she could live with, even if her father controlled it, and she was okay with her existence. Until Lorcan Scamander came and blew her universe to pieces.

When it's worded like that it sounds as if he suddenly and dramatically entered her life, but he didn't, he'd always been there, since she was little. The four of them (Lucy, Lily, Lorcan, and Lysander) were, and always had been, best friends. Somewhere along the line however, Lorcan became something more.

She wasn't sure when she fell in love with him, she couldn't remember a time when her stomach didn't break out in butterflies, and her hair wasn't twirled nervously around her fingers, she didn't know what it was like not to love him, and she was okay with that.

She was a dreamer, and he, a little more down to Earth, was her anchor, just like Lysander kept Lily from falling apart, he kept her from floating off into that great big sky she always wrote about. Lorcan did something to her that managed to crack all the rules she'd always lived by, he made her care.

When she was nine her father discovered that her eyesight was horrible, he took her to see a traditional Wizarding Optometrist, who gave her the most horrible, ugly, revolting thick lensed glasses Lucy had ever seen. Lily's dad got her a muggle contraption called contacts. She had, of course, planned to swallow her protests and wear them, but Lorcan had asked her how she felt about them and it all came spilling out, complete with tears. He got her to talk to her mother, and a compromise was reached, contacts were not going to happen ("They're for _muggle_ children, darling, you're _magical_."), so instead she got glasses with gold wire frames that made her look grown up.

In her third year, the night before Exams, he had found her curled up around a text book crying, because her father expected _nothing less than the best_, he took the books from her and led her down to the kitchens for ice cream. The following day she got O's in everything.

He never bugged her about her never ending poetry that always, in a moment of inspiration, ended up scrawled on napkins, or on the backs of his essays, or even, one time on his tie. For her eleventh birthday he got her a journal.

While Lily and Lysander practiced the never-ending quidditch plays, Lorcan and Lucy sat in the shade under a tree, her sprouting of verses, and him sketching her profile.

They were perfectly happy, completely content to sit side by side, letting life go on around them as they struggled through the world, side by side, always, and maybe one day they'd let their nerves fade into the background, and grasp each other's hands and never_ever_ let go. But that didn't need to be now, they had all the time in the world, they had poetry, and artwork, and all the stars in the sky.

One day, they'd admit that together they were perfect, and apart they would never last, but until then, they were perfectly happy to sit, watching Lysander and Lily try to get the Giant Squid to come up above the lake's surface, side by side, looking up at the great big sky, and wishing upon stars.


	3. Lysander

_**Chapter 3: Lysander**_

Lysander and Lily both played on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she was their seeker, and he was a beater. Dominique, the other beater, watched their chasers and their keeper, Lysander watched Lily.

She was accident prone, careless for her well-being, and very, very good at what she did, so she was a target as well. Lysander watched Lily because she needed someone to protect her from the bludgers that were constantly pelted at her back, and that job fell to him, because frankly, he was the only one who could keep up with her on a broom.

Lysander felt that small twinge of fear as she suddenly broke off into a nose dive, hurtling towards the ground at nerve-wracking (and neck-breaking) speed. That twinge was familiar; it was an occupational hazard that came with loving Lily. He followed after her, streaking through the air, faster than gravity could pull him.

Lily was a broken_broken_ girl, in love with the wrong boy, but Lysander could live with that, because even though when she broke down crying it was because of _him_, he still got to hold her in his arms. Even though she put on makeup every morning to impress _him_, he still got to see her with her hair curling, wet around her shoulders, her face clear of everything but a smile. Even though she practiced every quidditch move in the book to catch _his_ attention, it was still he who raced next to her. Even though she got detention trying to make _him_ jealous, he was still the one who picked her up afterwards. When she was in trouble, because of_ him_, or anyone, it was always Lysander she came running to.

He knew she didn't appreciate him, that she used him to make herself feel better when she was crushed by _his_ inattention, but he let himself be used, because even if he was just picking up the pieces, and consoling her so she could go back to try to love _him _again, he still got to be near her.

Lysander winced as Lily sped up, when she hit the ground in a tremendous crash it would be Lysander who spent the night in the Hospital Wing by her side, while _he_ would ask her two days later if she were okay, and she'd obsess about it for weeks.

Lily, even with the contact lenses her father bought her, was very, very blind, especially when it came to matters concerning the heart.

Sometimes Lysander was tempted to just let her break, to have her realize that _he_ was never going to love her, to make her feel the pain that Lysander himself went through all the time, but he never did, because then she might get over _him_. And if she got over _him_, and pulled herself together, and kept her heart from shattering, there would be no reason to run to Lysander, and where would he be then?

Loving Lily was like cleaning a wound, not always pleasant, but necessary to survive, and worth it in the end. Because one day, Lily would wake up, open her eyes, and see the boy she was meant to be with was right in front of her, ready to love. She would realize that the boy who had always been in the conscious part of her mind had nothing on the boy whose very being was embedded into her soul, she'd understand that he loved her, and that she loved him to.

With a sigh he mimicked her as she pulled up at last minute, snitch in hand, trying not to notice how her eyes searched for _his_ up in the crowd, one day she'd realize, until then, he'd be waiting in the wings, ready to catch her when she fell, and send her back into the air.

For Lysander, love was about waiting, and he'd wait for a long as it took.


	4. Lorcan

_**Chapter 4: Lorcan**_

Lorcan was afraid that one day he'd wake up and find that it was all a dream, that the _beautiful_ girl with soft brown hair and lopsided glasses was simply a figment of his imagination, because there was just _no_ way that someone as honestly _perfect_ as Lucy Weasley could possibly be real.

Then he'd remember that there was no way his mind could possibly conjure every single freckle on her tiny nose, and that the poetry she would randomly spit out was way beyond his capabilities. That no mental image could ever be as _gorgeous _as her, and that the indescribable shade of brown her eyes were was impossible to think up. So she must_must_ be real, because he's defined by her, and if she didn't exist he wouldn't know who he was.

It's the little things about her he loves, the fact that she thinks she would love to climb trees, but never does because she's terrified of heights, that she chews on the end of her quill when she's thinking, that there were, on July first, exactly seventy-four freckles on her nose. He loves that one of her front teeth is slightly crooked, and that she uses mango shampoo. He loves that when she runs out of paper, she writes on her arm.

He loves her, but he'd never tell her, at least not until she's good and ready, because Lucy was too fragile for this world, and he would protect her, and keep her heart sheltered until it matured enough to survive first encounters and tragic events, and then, when it got used to the constant turmoil of life, he'd take her hand and tell her every _single_ thing he loved about her, the list he had currently contained seven-hundred and eighty-six reasons, he'd only started writing them down three days ago.

He's an artist of sorts, but he can never quite capture her in his world. He had hundreds of different sketches of her, but they're never quite right, something is always missing, and he's yet to figure out what it is, but he'll keep drawing her until he discovers it, and he'll never get bored doing it, besides, it gives him an excuse to stare at her.

Lorcan was the one that kept Lucy going, that made sure she ate when she was lost in her thoughts, that informed her that her shirt was inside out, or that she'd forgotten to brush her hair. Lorcan hugged her when her owl died, and went with her when she got a new one, he was the one boys had to get around if they wanted to date her, and he did all of his duties happily (except maybe allowing other blokes to get near her, still he always smiled when she turned them down).

They were best friends, the two Ravenclaws, just like Lily and Lysander were best friends (Gryffindors) and they understood each other like no one else did, because their love consisted of years of friendship, and Lorcan was quite happy with that.

One day his dreams would become reality, he'll get the nerve to grab her hand, to take her to Hogsmeade, to give her a kiss, but until that day he was quite content with dreaming, as long as he got to see her every day, because she was so much more _captivating_ in real life, with her hair messed up and her glasses hanging crookedly off her nose.

Dreams were alright, but his Lucy, the real Lucy, was _so_ much better.


End file.
